Tarnish by Katherine Longshore

Author:Katherine Longshore
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group, USA
Published: 2013-05-21T04:00:00+00:00

33

I DON’T NEED A WHITE FLAG. THIS TIME, THE DEER SHALL DO THE pursuing. I put the lute beside the dais and make my obeisance to the queen, who nods sleepily. Every line of her age and tiredness shows.

I hear the voices from the card table as I pass by on my way out. The crack and slap of cards. The mutters. It sounds like Wyatt is winning. I don’t look.

James Butler steps in front of me.

“Where are you going?”

His grip is surprisingly gentle on my arm. I barely look at his face as I pull away.

“Air.”

I step from the room into the crowded stairwell, down through the hall and into a sea of courtiers. I scan the swells of velvet and silk for the russet and gold braid of Percy’s cap.

He’s leaving.

I follow him out into the night and through the middle court to the lodgings. The noise recedes the farther we get from the hall, and darkness encloses us. It seems everyone is packed into one end of the palace, not wanting to miss anything. Not wanting to miss the chance to shine.

And I am here, walking through the empty rooms and galleries behind Percy. Alone. Dust settles on the floors and tapestries, illuminated by the rising moonlight that shines in fractured pieces through the leaded windows.

“Percy.” My voice barely stirs the air. I gather my strength. “Lord Percy!”

He turns, and his eyes are as dark and empty as the gallery. Cold. He takes two steps, and is so close upon me that I can’t think to move. I just stand and stare.

His lips barely move when he speaks. “You need to tell me what’s happening between you and Wyatt.”

Not a question. An order.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” His voice is quiet and low. And as dark as his eyes. “He seems to think it’s something. He’s wearing your colors.”

Henry Percy flicks the yellow sleeve of my gown. The embroidery on my hood. The collar of my bodice. The movements are quick enough to be violent, to make me flinch, but not hard enough to hurt.

“He carries your favor.”

He lays his finger on the spot between my collarbones, where the A once rested. His finger feels cold, smooth. Like marble.

“We’re friends.”

My words—my excuse—sound feeble, even to my own ears.

He makes a sound that could be a bark. It could be a laugh—though a forced one.

“It’s nothing.” I can’t face his silence. “It means nothing. He’s Thomas Wyatt for pity’s sake. The man’s soul is made of sugar paste and poetry. You can’t believe a thing he says. Or does.”

Guilt. Remorse. Sharp as a blade between my ribs.

“It’s because he’s Thomas Wyatt that people will believe it’s true,” Percy says. “He’s a known rake. A scoundrel. It’s assumed that any girl associated with him must also be in his bed.”

“I haven’t been in anyone’s bed,” I say defiantly. “Ever.”

“But you lived in the French court,” Percy stutters. “They say no one . . .”

“They say no girl leaves there with her virginity intact,” I finish for him.

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